


Murder City

by GothicPrincessWitch, scatteringmyashes



Series: The Saga Of The City Of Broken Chains [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Violence, Past Abuse, Red-Purple Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 01:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17315846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothicPrincessWitch/pseuds/GothicPrincessWitch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteringmyashes/pseuds/scatteringmyashes
Summary: Last date had its faults, but clearly that's because Fenris and Hawke tried to do something out of their comfort zone. Now they're going to kill some slavers and make Kirkwall a better place. They’ve done this dozens, if not hundreds, of times. And there's no easier way to show off to your boyfriend than murdering some morally questionable ‘Vints.What could possibly go wrong?





	Murder City

**Author's Note:**

> We're back with the second installment in the series! While certainly there are some parts that will make more sense if you've read _High Standards_ by no means is it required. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

While it is certainly true that Garrett Hawke is a Fereldan country boy at heart, there’s something about the dimly lit streets of Kirkwall’s lower levels which feel so very much like home to him. Maybe it’s because he discovered his true, violent self fighting on these streets. Or perhaps it’s because he first found the love of his life on one of these particularly dangerous, blood-splattered street corners. 

Regardless, being in the deadliest parts of Kirkwall — whether dauntlessly striding through the streets and back alleyways or driving through on his motorcycle — with his head held high, his demeanor powerful and indomitable as ever, Hawke feels as though he belongs here even more than he belongs in rich, fancy Hightown. Although he enjoys the power and notoriety that comes with being the Kingpin of Kirkwall, the most dangerous criminal overlord in the city, his roots stretch down deep through the Undercity, through all the filth and rot, down through all the putrid corpses encased in cement or cast aside — stripped and forgotten — down through all the worst elements of Kirkwall, which mirror all the worst elements of Hawke himself. 

Hawke has no delusions of being a good person. He’s had to do a lot of terrible things to get to where he is. He’s had to do even worse things just to survive. It’s only fitting that he belongs down here in the filth and shit. 

But Fenris, on the other hand...

Fenris belongs somewhere far, far above. He is the most incredible person Hawke has ever known, as well as the strongest, the most capable, the most courageous, and the wittiest. Not to mention the handsomest. He should have a better place to live than a decrepit, abandoned warehouse in the shittiest part of the city. Hawke would gladly give it to him. Indeed, Hawke would gladly give Fenris anything, but this is Fenris’s choice, and for all that Hawke is a cruel and ruthless man, he could never do anything to take away Fenris’s independence and freedom of choice. 

At the very least Hawke’s paid a few of his thugs to keep an eye on the place, to make sure it remains untouched, and he’s been paying more bribes to city officials than he’d care to admit in order to ensure this warehouse remains abandoned, save for its lone squatter. And at least Hawke knows that Fenris is perfectly capable of protecting himself. Fenris is possibly more dangerous than Hawke himself, not that Hawke is about to give up his title of “the most dangerous man in Kirkwall” anytime soon. But that doesn’t stop Hawke from worrying about Fenris, as he worries about all of his loved ones. He just especially worries about Fenris, because Fenris is a very special person — and very special to Hawke. 

He doesn’t worry as much about himself, however, and wastes no time coming here, to arguably one of the worst districts of Kirkwall, without any bodyguards or retinue, unlike the mob bosses he’s previously overthrown. Bodyguards are reserved only for his sister, Bethany, who needs them after what happened to her and Carver several years ago. Part of it is his arrogance, and part of it is his recklessness, and yet another part is his ruthlessness towards anyone who crosses him. 

There’s a twisted kind of pleasure he takes in showing off his brutality to his enemies — to anyone who gets in his way. 

Which is what he intends to do tonight.

Hawke has very strict rules for all the districts in his criminal empire. For example, while drug dealing is permitted, drugs may not be sold to kids or teenagers. And one of his biggest rules is that he absolutely does not allow any kind of slave trafficking under any circumstances. 

It took him years to root out all the different slaver rings in Kirkwall when he came to power. Kirkwall was initially founded as the center of the Tevinter Imperium’s slave trade, after all, and despite all the long centuries upon centuries of progress since, Tevinter slavers still want a hold on the City of Chains. There’s something about the structure of the port city which makes it easier for people to be taken away beneath the notice of the police. There are too many dark corners where people simply disappear, and the slavers poured into Kirkwall in greater numbers after Hawke disposed of the Par Vollen mafia’s hold on the city. But Hawke didn’t let them stay, even though it cost him dearly.

Hawke may be a vicious man with a loose moral compass, but he has a moral compass nonetheless, and while he possesses the power to stop slave traffickers, he’s determined to do what he can. Whenever he hears word of new slavers attempting to set up shop in his territories, he goes to teach them a personal lesson. 

Since having met Fenris, Hawke usually asks Fenris to accompany him on these violent little lessons. And tonight they’ll be going together to take down a group of slavers whom he’s heard have attempted to stake a claim in a few parts of the Undercity. 

It will be his and Fenris’s second date. 

Hawke is so excited — both at the prospect of brutally murdering slavers and at spending time with Fenris — that he could nearly burst from anticipation. 

So now, as dusk settles over Kirkwall and the shadows of the city loom over him, he takes his motorcycle to Fenris’s warehouse, to pick up his date and show him a marvelous time. 

#

It is a rare nice day in the warehouse. It isn't too hot, as summer hasn't yet arrived in full force. It isn't too cold, as the remnants of the afternoon’s heat is still permeating throughout the upper level. Fenris is comfortable enough in his ragged jeans, dirty T-Shirt, and a lightweight sweatshirt. It is a bit of a throwaway sweatshirt, one that already has a few holes in the sleeves and is tattered at the edges. 

After all, it wouldn’t do to wear something nice while hunting for slavers. 

The warehouse itself reflects how Fenris feels most of the time: broken, slightly useless, barely capable of supporting life. But it is also where Fenris calls home. There is his matress, dragged away from the stairs and tucked into a corner. There is a single lamp plugged into a faulty socket, a mini-fridge next to it, and a shaky table all shoved to the side. Placed precariously on the table are the last batch of flowers that Hawke had given him a week ago on their first date, put in a nice marbled grey vase. There is also a barely used crockpot. Another gift from Hawke. 

His two most prized possessions — a beautiful dagger with a Mother of Pearl lined hilt, and a leather-bound copy of _A Slave’s Life_ — are kept in a special watertight bin by his bed. It is also where he has stuck the copy of the Chant that Sebastian gifted him. Isabela gave him a sturdy pair of leather boots as the weather turned colder last year, but those tend to be on Fenris’s feet or also by his bed. 

He keeps the majority of his clothes in two suitcases. One is for his filthy, unwearable clothes and the other is for his clean enough clothes. Every once in a while, he’ll drag the suitcase to Sebastian’s and clean everything off — including himself. It isn't a good life, but it is his life.

Because Fenris can pile ten blankets and five pillows on his bed. Because he can stock the fridge with whatever junk he wants to eat, can read books as they stack up around his makeshift camp. Because someone would have to climb up the only remaining staircase — which is rickety and suspect and most importantly loud — and cross the vast majority of unoccupied, trapped warehouse before reaching him. 

Beyond the bare necessities, Fenris also has a pistol — one that Hawke gave him, far nicer than anything he could have stolen or found — next to his bed. He keeps his trusty steel pipe on his table when he isn't using it. There is also always a pocket knife on his person, if not more than one. Fenris has no illusions about his tentative safety and freedom. The smallest thing could throw him back to Danarius, away from everything he was trying to build here. And Fenris cannot allow that to happen.

He is going to learn how to live if it killed him. Which, if his anxiety has anything to say, it very well might. 

Waiting for Hawke to arrive for their second — the second! — date is ruining Fenris’s nerves even worse than the last time. He paces back and forth, glancing out one of the wax paper covered windows. It faces out towards the street where Hawke usually pulls up on his motorcycle looking dangerous as sin and attractive as hell. So far nothing — not even the sound of an engine.

Fenris checks his phone, reading the text Hawke had sent telling Fenris that he is on his way. It was over fifteen minutes ago, and Hawke did live rather far… But all Fenris can think about is Hawke getting into a crash and Fenris being none the wiser. 

He swears and shakes his head, resuming his pacing. He needs to snap out of it. He is — he is acting like some kind of love-struck fool! This is entirely ridiculous. He has affection for Hawke, certainly more than he has felt for anyone ever before, but he can't let his guard down. Hawke might have promised to be respectful and to not push Fenris’s boundaries, but Fenris knows that Danarius was not above giving a very large amount of power and wealth to someone willing to sell Fenris off. 

And Hawke treasures power and wealth more than most. 

Fenris toys with the switchblade that Hawke gave him a while ago “just because.” It is nice and practical, feels good in Fenris’s hands, and is wicked sharp. It helps calm his anxiety in ways he doesn't bother exploring. 

I _t is fine. He is on his way. You two will go on a quick search for a group of slavers, kill a few people, and come back before the sun has even risen. There is nothing to worry about._

_Nothing at all._

#

Hawke’s motorcycle roars to a stop in the outskirts of Lowtown, just outside Fenris’s dilapidated warehouse. Removing his helmet, he takes a tiny comb and mirror from the pocket of his cherry red leather jacket and makes sure that his artfully mussed hair is perfect. Hawke is a vain, vain man, and he is absolutely determined to look his best for his wonderful date of murdering slavers. Declaring his reflection in the mirror sheer perfection — _an utterly sexy and suave specimen of manliness_ — he mists a spritz of his travel-sized sandalwood-cinnamon cologne over him and practices his cocky smirk. Tucking the mirror back into his pocket, he heads into the warehouse.

“Hey, it’s me,” he calls out, hoping his voice will put Fenris at ease and not be alarmed by an intruder in his space. Then Hawke, with the utmost caution and precision, makes his way around all the carefully laid traps in the warehouse and heads over to the lone and terrifying set of stairs. 

The sound of Hawke making his way up the stairs puts Fenris both at ease and makes him even more anxious. He grabs his pipe off the table, loads the pistol and holsters it securely on his belt, and then goes to meet Hawke at the top of the stairs. 

True to form, Hawke looks incredible. He's got on his ridiculous red leather jacket and his hair is perfect in its unkempt style. The smell of his cologne is just strong enough to reach Fenris and, despite himself, he flushes a soft red. Something about Hawke makes him feel — feel different. Fenris still hasn't decided if he likes it. 

“Hello, Hawke. I hope your drive here was uneventful?” Fenris says. 

Hawke’s arrogant smile softens into something genuine the moment he lays eyes on Fenris. Beautiful, breathtaking, gorgeous Fenris, with that soft silver hair messily falling into those entrancing eyes, which are ringed by dark shadows which Hawke feels the sudden urge to tenderly kiss. 

“I had a lovely drive here. It’s a perfect night for a ride,” he replies smoothly.

Somehow Hawke is feeling just as self-conscious as he had on their first date, which surprises him, because this is rather more their usual kind of outing than a dinner at Hawke’s idea of a fancy restaurant. Then, Fenris was in a suit, looking elegant and sophisticated; and now Fenris’s clothes are ripped and worn, yet he looks incredibly comfortable and casual and equally sexy. (Then again, Fenris could probably wear a burlap sack and look just as sexy in Hawke’s eyes. Because Fenris simply _is_ unfathomably sexy.) 

“I know it’s customary to kiss at the end of the date, but I am a badass rebel rule-breaker, and I was hoping I might have the pleasure of kissing you now?” Hawke requests, fully aware that he is looking at Fenris with the most smitten of expressions. 

It throws Fenris off, still unused to such soft affection, and he can only give Hawke a nod. He looks away, the blush growing stronger and showing at the tips of his ears. 

Asking permission may be the bare minimum of politeness, at least according to Sebastian, but it means the world to Fenris. 

Hawke’s leather-gloved hands move to carefully cup Fenris’s lovely face, tilting his head upward slightly as Hawke brings his lips to Fenris’s. This, this kiss, is what pure bliss tastes like. It’s a soft kiss, gentle and chaste and far too brief, but Hawke does not wish to overwhelm Fenris, so he lingers for only a moment before pulling away, his hands still caressing Fenris’s blushing cheeks. Hawke’s tongue licks his lower lip as if savoring the taste of Fenris. 

All Hawke can do is stare in awe at the love of his life and wonder just how he got to be so lucky. 

_Oh,_ Fenris thinks. _That was very nice._

“Are you excited for our date?” Hawke murmurs, reluctantly removing his hands from Fenris at last. “I promise I’ll do my best to show you a good time.” 

As Hawke pulls away, Fenris seems to sway towards him. He snaps out of it quickly, coughing into his hand. “I am ready. I am looking forward to seeing what trouble I have to save you from,” Fenris teases. 

“My hero,” says Hawke with a grin. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to ignore the ache in his palms and in his heart from how much he longs to hold Fenris again. “We’re going after a ‘Vint named Danzig and his pals tonight. One of my people in the Undercity rescued a victim of his. It... wasn’t very pretty. I thought you might enjoy helping me get rid of him.” 

It’s a wonder that Hawke’s voice stays so soft and gentle despite the subject matter of his words. But then again, his voice is always softer when he speaks to Fenris. 

Unbidden, the memory of chains and pain hits Fenris so hard that he forgets how to breathe. He shakes it off and nods. His grip on his pipe tightens. 

“Gladly,” he swears. “To your motorcycle?” 

“Of course! You’d better hold on tight to me.” Hawke winks, before he offers Fenris his hand for them to walk outside together. He isn’t certain Fenris will take it — because of the discomfort which crossed Fenris’s face just now, because it isn’t always possible for two people at the same time to get around the traps Fenris set out on the warehouse floor, because Fenris has both hands around that heavy steel pipe — but he offers nonetheless. 

It is, admittedly, always delightful to see Fenris bring along the pipe on outings like these. After all, it was Fenris’s weapon of choice the night they first met, a night filled with bloodshed and anguish but also the hope of new beginnings. 

A moment passes before Fenris loosens one hand off the pipe. He reaches out and squeezes Hawke's hand in his. 

“Lead the way,” Fenris murmurs, not meeting Hawke's gaze. He refuses to acknowledge the butterflies that have erupted in his stomach, quietly walking down the stairs with Hawke. Fenris feels his hand is sweaty, gross, not at all nice and well-kept like Hawke's. But Hawke does not complain and Fenris doesn't bring it up. 

Navigating past the traps requires them to let go of one another, but Fenris immediately returns to Hawke's side when they are outside of the warehouse. He takes the spare helmet when Hawke offers it and slips it on. It fits comfortably, smaller than the one Hawke uses himself, and Fenris feels a little bit better now that his face is obscured. Less chance for him to embarrass himself. 

Fenris gets on the bike first, casually swinging onto the seat behind the driver's part. He swallows as Hawke slides on, the epitome of masculinity and ease. Fenris feels the stirring of something that's almost sexual — and that's rare enough — but his anxiety roars into life and squashes it before he can identify it. 

He waits for Hawke to start the bike before gently wrapping his arms around Hawke's waist, leaning against him and wishing he could smell that sharp sandalwood and cinnamon. 

Hawke’s breath catches in his chest when Fenris wraps his arms around him. The sight of Fenris on his motorcycle, wearing the helmet Hawke had custom made for Fenris, is already one of the sexiest things ever, but this, with Fenris’s arms around him, leaning close into him, while Hawke drives his motorcycle down to the Undercity, is infinitely sexier. Hawke spends most of the ride mentally scolding his erection because there’s simply no helping it any time soon. 

#

The denizens of Darktown know to get out of their way. Most of them, even those in rival gangs, won’t dare cross the Kingpin of Kirkwall and his closest companion. Hawke feels quite assured that his motorcycle, with his very recognizable family crest painted onto it, will remain untouched where he parks it. After all, mostly everyone in Darktown remembers what happened to the pieces of the last person to try stealing the Kingpin’s motorcycle. 

Hawke’s heart flutters within his chest as he watches Fenris slide down off his motorcycle. They’re surrounded by danger yet Fenris continues to look so very sexy, and it sends a thrill through Hawke. Somehow Fenris manages to appear breathtakingly perfect no matter what he does. Hawke finds himself having to resist the urge to kiss Fenris right in the middle of the Undercity. 

Oh so smoothly, Hawke clears his throat. “It’s a lovely night for a walk in the Undercity,” he says. This is a bold-faced lie. It is never pleasant in Darktown. Darktown is essentially a sewer full of garbage and thugs and also rats like Anders. However, it is always pleasant to be in Fenris’s company. 

Fenris coughs and kicks at the ground. There's a used condom not five inches from his foot. “Yes, I do enjoy the smell of putrid air and suffering.” He gives Hawke a wry smile, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “So Hawke, you know where this slaver is. Let us do the city a service and clean up some of its trash.” 

“I am, if anything, a public servant,” says Hawke with a hearty laugh.

There are times when Hawke needs to be stealthy, to blend seamlessly into the shadows as he stalks his prey, only to reappear the moment he strikes. This is not one of them. 

With a heavy steel-toed boot, Hawke kicks down the door and enters the slavers’ current base of operations. His bowie knife immediately sinks into the gut of the man guarding the door, cutting him down before he can pull the trigger on his gun. Hawke spits in his face before twisting the blade and ripping it out. It’s a better death than a slaver deserves.

And there inside is Danzig, looking as grotesque as the description Hawke’s informant gave, with bold, wing-like tattoos adorning his mustachioed face, a large, dark gold hat with a wide brim set over his head, and the sharp glow of magic on fingertips. Not just a mage, but a Tevinter mage. Immediately his eyes rake over Fenris, and he flashes a poisonously sweet smile.

“Are you volunteering, or are you here to sell today, Kingpin?” asks Danzig.

Hawke’s blood is all but boiling in his veins as fury surges through him, golden eyes blazing like twin suns. His only response is to thrust his knife into the neck of the closest slaver, making sure it’s a killing blow. He counts about a dozen surrounding him and Fenris, but despite being outnumbered, he’s not afraid. All this means is that there are a dozen opportunities for target practice before he gets to Danzig. 

Fenris follows suit, letting his rage and hatred take over and swallow him so that his fear and doubt do not. He smashes his pipe into the head of one slaver and twists out of the way as another lunges for him with hands ready to pin him down. As a prized, well-known ex-slave of Danarius, most slavers are hesitant to use lethal force against him. Fenris makes sure that it’s a mistake they only make once.

It isn’t hard for Fenris to take his knife out and slice it across the man’s back, leaving a jagged wound. But Fenris’s knife is not meant for bone and it isn’t a deadly blow. The man is still able to stand up and he pulls a gun. Fenris feels his blood run cold and he phases out of corporeal form as the bullets pass by. It’s strange — he can feel them pass through him like mist — but then he’s back in the real world. 

When Fenris fires his gun, he doesn’t miss.

Hawke stays close to Fenris’s side as they fight. They’re safer together, stronger together, and exponentially deadlier together. Hawke is a big man, but he’s fast, far faster than one would expect for his size, and he’s quick enough to dodge blows and block the ones he can’t, using one hand to hold off his opponent’s knife and the other to make a killing strike. Speed and precision are his primary skills when it comes to fighting, and they haven’t failed him yet. His kills are all quick and efficient, meant to take out one foe in order to get to the next, but he makes them painful when he can, twisting the blade, striking nerves, sending a few well aimed kicks to his opponents’ groins. Pain is all they deserve for taking people and thinking they can sell them like commodities.

Most of his attention is on the men trying to subdue him, but he keeps an eye on Fenris. It’s hard to say which of them the slavers would consider more valuable, but Hawke will be dead before he lets them take Fenris, before he ever lets them touch Fenris. 

With Hawke at his side, Fenris feels invincible. The two of them are a whirlwind of death and destruction. Fenris forces much of the attention, as he is literally glowing, and then Hawke takes advantage of their distraction and deals the final strike. One lucky slaver manages to slash a cut across Fenris’s shoulder and Hawke blows his head off. Someone tries to stab Hawke from behind and Fenris rips her heart from her chest. 

They don’t look at one another, they don’t talk. The only sound is grunting, breathing, and the slice of metal across skin — all punctuated by shot after shot from their guns. 

Hawke notes that Danzig stays away from the melee, his mouth muttering the words to some kind of spell. His underlings don’t seem disposable enough to him for him to cast fireballs or other area of effect attacks, which means this spell is one meant specifically for a single target. Mana flashes in his hands, but Hawke hasn’t yet cut a path through the others in order to stop him before the mage finishes casting. All he can do is watch and then— _No!_

Hawke shoves Fenris out of the way of Danzig’s spell just in time, only to get caught in the Crushing Prison spell. 

The telekinetic forces feels as though it’s squeezing his insides into mush, and he can’t move beyond the confines of the spell, paralyzed by magic and pain.

The most dangerous and feared man in Kirkwall, made useless by a single bloody spell. Great. Just great. 

_But,_ he tells himself, _at least Fenris isn’t hurt._

The major downside to being trapped is that he can’t defend Fenris or himself further, and immediately the closest slaver aims a gun at Fenris’s head, while Hawke can’t even scream to warn him. 

Fenris hits the ground and he notices two things as he stands. One, Hawke is trapped and in pain, paralyzed by a spell that Fenris recalls all too well. Second, there's a direct path between him and Danzig. 

Without hesitation, not seeing the man behind him ready to shoot him in the head, Fenris lunges for Danzig with inhumane speed. The shot is fired and he doesn't even register the sound, pipe swinging through the air and colliding with Danzig's barrier. Fenris grits his teeth and reaches for his pistol. He brings it up and fires it but it clicks — empty. 

He throws it at someone who is trying to sneak upon him before delivering a roundhouse kick to Danzig. He uses the momentum to push himself off the barrier and out of the way of a knife. Fenris summons up the lyrium again, pulsing it and pushing everyone back. The slavers hit the ground and Danzig's barrier flickers before fading entirely. 

A cry of rage rises up from Fenris's throat. He's in pain from using his brands and from minor injuries and he's terrified for Hawke, but he can't stop. He scrambles forward and, with his adrenaline through the roof, crushes Danzig's windpipe between his fingers. The Crushing Prison disappears. Fenris falls to the ground, pain racing up and down his spine. 

“Fenris!” shouts Hawke, anguish in his voice, but despite his urge to run to Fenris and make sure he’s alright, Hawke pivots to kick down one of the slavers starting to rise and then shoots her. With Danzig dead, the remaining three are easy pickings, and Hawke cracks his knuckles menacingly before giving each of them the slower, more painful deaths with his knife that he’d planned for Danzig.

When the final enemy has fallen, Hawke whirls toward Fenris, dashing toward him with newfound adrenaline. “Are you alright?” he cries, his golden eyes wide with concern. He wants to hold Fenris in his arms, wants to kiss him passionately, and also wants to make out with him right here and now, because underneath the concern Hawke can’t help but feel a spike of arousal at how very, very hot Fenris looked in that fight. 

Seriously, Fenris was an absolute badass in that fight, and Hawke admires him very greatly. 

Despite the heat pooling downward within Hawke’s stomach, he attempts to slip back into the steely, undaunted demeanor of the Kingpin. He’s a crime lord with a job to do, not a fainting damsel in distress about to swoon over his hero. Even though Fenris is admittedly very swoon-worthy. His eyes still heated and burning, he kneels down beside Fenris, there to help him sit up if necessary, and checks for any serious injuries. 

“We need to find where they’re keeping the people they’ve taken, and hope they haven’t shipped them north to the Imperium yet,” he says. It’s not a command. Never a command with Fenris. “Can you get up, or shall I carry you?” 

Fenris grits his teeth and sits up. He focuses on Hawke, taking in his bloody knife and the other injuries scattered across Hawke's body. But now that he's freed from the spell, Hawke looks no worse for wear. Certainly nothing permanent. 

“I am fine,” Fenris murmurs. He stumbles to his feet, more pain flaring up. Mentally, he goes over his body and checks for injuries. He wiggled his toes, tenses and relaxes his legs, breathes in and out — “Fasta vass.” His vision swims but he stays on his feet. He looks at his shoulder and sees that a bullet has grazed him. The wound is bleeding, though thankfully no major artery was hit, but the pain is what is distracting him now. 

“Fenris…” Hawke’s voice is hushed, almost like a reverent whisper, as his arm wraps around Fenris’s waist, supporting him and holding him close. “Are you sure you’re fine? You’re bleeding… Is this the part where I rip off my shirt to bandage your wounds while you stare at my abs?” 

He flashes Fenris a reassuring grin which he doesn’t actually feel. Inwardly he’s berating himself for being such an idiot as to endanger Fenris like this. 

Fenris allows himself to sway, to lean against Hawke and finally relax. “I think your shirt should remain on for now,” he says. He glances at his shoulder and winces. “Are there any bandages in your saddlebags?” 

Hawke nods. “I brought a first aid kit, just in case. Let’s get you taken care of, and then I hope you don’t mind if I call Varric to request some backup to come clean up this place.” His other arm also wraps around Fenris, and he’s very tempted to lift Fenris and carry him back out to his motorcycle, but he resists the impulse. Instead he kisses Fenris’s cheek. “Thank you for saving my life, my handsome hero.” 

A soft chuckle escapes Fenris. He rests his head on Hawke's shoulder but the motion stretches his muscle and wrecks his injury so he straightens up. The two of them limp to the motorcycle, which is absolutely untouched. A few people seem to be lingering to see what the result of the fight was. None of them try anything though, not stupid enough to think blood is an indicator of weakness.

Hawke carefully — lovingly, one might say — tends to Fenris’s injury, cleaning up the blood and then stitching up the wound right then and there in Darktown. His eyes are soft, and he keeps glancing at Fenris’s face, to reassure himself that Fenris is alright. The memory of Fenris falling to the ground keeps replaying in his head, over and over and over, and each time it squeezes Hawke’s heart and chest so hard that it hurts to breathe. As the adrenaline wears off, this pain only heightens.

Fenris winces as the disinfectant stings and as Hawke applies the bandage, but he stays quiet. It is odd, being cared for with such love. With Danarius, any injuries were quickly healed with magic. There was no regard for his brands, which make all magic spread through his body and sting like the devil. Hawke is only concerned about helping Fenris. He doesn't care if the wound scars, if it mars Fenris's appearance. 

After a few minutes, Fenris lets out a sigh of relief. His shoulder is feeling better already. He rolls it a little, testing its movement. He isn't willing to speak, isn't sure what to say. _Thank you_ is obvious. _I am glad you are safe_ is an understatement. 

Hawke finally breaks the silence, murmuring, “I’m sorry…” 

It’s hardly the first time Fenris has been injured in a fight — not even the first time Fenris has been injured saving Hawke’s ass, to be quite honest — but it is the first time Fenris has gotten hurt since they started dating. That makes it different. That makes it worse. And more than that, this is Hawke’s fault. This is — How could he be so foolish? He did this. He hurt Fenris with his arrogance. He decided for them to go take on a Tevinter slaver mage on their own, with no backup. _This is all his fault._

Hawke had thought he was doing something good. Stopping slavers means helping people. And helping Fenris. Going after slavers was how they first met, after all. And with every slaver Fenris kills, he moves a little further from his past. 

Hawke had thought he was doing something right for the two of them for their date, the kind of thing they’ve done so many times before, something that would be comforting in its typicality, something that would be empowering for Fenris. 

Hawke is a fool. 

After all his dreams of trying to be a better man for Fenris, he’s ultimately not. He’s a violent, merciless criminal overlord who gets people killed. He obsesses over appearances and over amassing his power and wealth and notoriety. He gets Fenris to come kill people with him. 

So what makes Hawke any different than Danarius?

He’s bad for Fenris just like Danarius was bad for Fenris. He’s bad for Fenris just like he was bad for his brother Carver. Just like he still is bad for his sister Bethany.

All of Hawke’s life is death and destruction and violence and pain, and he brings death and destruction to everyone he cares about. He brings pain to everyone. And sure, Fenris’s injury isn’t life-threatening, but he was still hurt because of Hawke. Hawke is a monster. No better than Danzig or the other monsters he killed this evening. 

“I’m sorry,” is all he can manage to say, but it feels like the most inadequate apology in the world. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats feebly.

Fenris stares at Hawke. “You saved me. You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“Nothing? Fenris, I— You were hurt because of me,” Hawke replies. “You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me. I have everything to apologize for.” 

His anguish is laced through his words and written clearly on his face for the whole world to see, but Fenris is, of course, the whole world to Hawke.

“You are right. I would not be here. I would not be in Kirkwall. I would still be on the run. Or I would be captured once more, a slave at the behest of my master. Yet instead I am here. Bleeding and injured but here.” Fenris hesitates before pressing his lips against Hawke's bloody cheek. “I prefer to be here.” 

Fenris wants to be here. Fenris wants to be with him. More than that, Fenris has chosen and continues to choose this. This means everything to Hawke, who’s staring at Fenris with golden eyes wide in awe. The tightness squeezing his chest has eased, and now it feels as though the warmth of the sun is burning within him, the warmth and brightness of Fenris’s feelings for him and of his feelings for Fenris. 

His arms enveloping Fenris’s waist once more, Hawke moves closer and brings his lips to Fenris’s for a kiss, right here in the middle of the filthy Undercity with who knows how many people leering at them. But at the moment Hawke doesn’t care about that. All he cares about is how much he completely loves and adores Fenris and how very happy he is that Fenris has chosen to be with him. 

They're both covered in blood and dirt. Fenris feels gross and grimy. But he melts into the kiss, closing his eyes and sighing against Hawke. His hand presses against Hawke's chest, smearing more blood against his jacket. Hawke is warm, soft. He's everything Fenris wants in his life. 

“I care greatly for you, Hawke. And I would take a hundred more bullets for you.” 

“Please don’t. Sebastian would murder me,” says Hawke with a small chuckle. He smiles then. “Thank you, love.” 

Fenris smiles. “You are welcome, my dear.” He laces his fingers with Hawke's and squeezes Hawke's hand. “You should call Varric now. We need to rescue those the slavers captured.” 

Hawke nods. “We do,” he says. “And you’re sure you’re alright? Are there any other injuries for me to kiss better?” 

The resultant snort from Fenris is loud enough to startle a rat that has stuck its head out of a sewer entrance. Fenris stands, taking in a shaky breath. “I think I am fine,” he assures Hawke. 

Taking out the current burner phone he uses for business, the Kingpin of Kirkwall calls up his consigliere, Varric Tethras, and arranges for some of his underlings to join them in Darktown. Which, technically, he should have done from the beginning, but he’d wanted to show off his fighting prowess for Fenris. Instead Fenris ended up showing off for him in a way. 

Soon enough a few black, unmarked vans pull up, and from them arrive a mix of Marcher thugs and Fereldan refugees who’d turned to the mob in order to find work. All of them treat Hawke — and by extension, as one of the Kingpin’s inner circle, Fenris — with a mixture of respect and a healthy amount of fear. Together they re-enter the base of the former Danzig, and several of them begin gathering up the slavers’ corpses in order to tactfully dispose of them. 

Down in the lower levels they find where Danzig and company have been keeping their victims. It hurts Hawke to see this. It hurts because no one should ever be kept in a cage like an animal. It hurts because it still reminds him far too much of what Carver and Bethany suffered years ago when a rival gang decided to make them pay the price for Hawke’s harsh stance on slavers. And it hurts because he can’t help but wonder how similar this might be to what Fenris endured in Tevinter, and these thoughts once again make the blood in his veins boil with rage and pain. 

There’s a group of ten people in the cages, mostly elves, all of them starving and covered in the kind of bruises that come from force magic. Hawke wastes no time in releasing them and in making sure they’re aware that Hawke and his men are here to help them, not hurt them. Since rising to power as Kingpin, Hawke has put a great deal of time and effort and money into funding resources and shelters for survivors of slave trafficking, for people like these who need help and somewhere to go after being rescued. 

He tells himself that doing this kind of thing makes up for all the terrible, cruel things he does. He almost believes it. 

The sight of others captured like he was is enough to make Fenris feel sick, but he maintains a neutral expression and just goes around reassuring the kidnapped people that they are safe. Some of them are Dalish but most are not. Regardless, they take comfort in another elf — one who clearly has been through what they have experienced — promising them that these humans are trustworthy. Fenris's word clearly means more than anyone else's — for obvious reasons.

Fenris would never have allowed Hawke to walk away from him still breathing if he was the kind to use and manipulate others to put them in chains. 

“Who are you?” One of the rescued, a young female elf with long black hair and ratty clothes, asks Fenris when he breaks her chains. 

“It does not matter,” he replies. He's well aware that these people will spread word of who saved them and keeping his name out of their mouths may very well save them again. “You are safe now. These men are good men. They will help you.” 

“Did they save you too?” She asks. Her eyes are wide as they flicker between Fenris and Hawke, who is clearly in charge. 

Fenris hesitates. Then he nods. 

This seems to be what the woman is looking for because she smiles and nods back. She turns towards the others who were in her cell and tells them something in Dalish. After that, they all seem a little more cooperative. 

Hawke personally makes sure that each one of the rescuees is alright, that any injuries are tended to, and that they’ll make it safely to one of the shelters in Lowtown, as escorted by his underlings. His final command for the evening is to order one of his men to drop Danzig’s head in the gutter with the rest of the trash somewhere in the Undercity, without the rest of him attached, in order to make a statement. 

Afterward, he turns to Fenris with a sly smile and a gleam returning to his eyes. “You know,” he says oh so nonchalantly, “we’re still on a date. Would you like to go somewhere nicer, maybe grab a bite to eat?” He shrugs without caring one bit that they’re both covered in blood and grime. “We can take my motorcycle up to Lowtown. I did promise to take you there once.” 

Fenris racks his brain for when something like that could have come up and vaguely recalls Hawke mentioning a Ferelden place he enjoyed. While Fenris is not the biggest fan of Ferelden cuisine, tonight he’s content to just spend time with Hawke.

“Lead on,” he says, heading back to the motorcycle. 

#

Hawke takes them to one of the more Fereldan areas of Lowtown. Just as in Darktown, people hurry to get out of his way and try to hide their stares. The faces here are as weary and wary as they are in Darktown, but they’re also warmer, especially toward Hawke. There are a great many people, particularly those in Hightown, who have taken advantage of the refugees who came to Kirkwall from Ferelden, but Hawke has done his best to make sure they don’t get evicted from their homes, that they get paid decent wages, that they have a place to preserve Fereldan culture here in Lowtown.

He isn’t quite one of them with all his family ties to Kirkwall’s blue-blooded elite, and yet at the same time he’s also just another refugee who still misses Ferelden’s farmlands after all. 

He takes them to a small food truck specializing in Fereldan fare and is immediately greeted by Allison, the owner and chef who runs the food truck with her two sons. She’s a familiar face from Lothering — lived right across the street from Old Barlin — and is always a welcome sight in Lowtown.

“Hello, Hawke. Lovely to see you,” she says with a smile, with no remark as to the blood splattered over them. Allison is a slight woman with long dark hair pulled back with a plastic clip, save for the few long strands falling into her eyes, wearing a pink apron. She’s typically shy with a tendency to stutter around strangers, but Hawke is no stranger. 

“Always happy to see you around, ma’am,” replies Hawke with more politeness than he normally shows to anyone who’s not family, a close friend, or a member of the clergy. 

“The usual for you and your friend?” asks Allison, already setting two mounds wrapped in aluminum foil, along with plastic forks and napkins, onto the counter hanging out the truck window. She refuses to accept payment from Hawke, and he resolutely stuffs a hundred sovereign paper bill into the tip jar while he thanks her and wishes her well.

After finding a bench to sit on which is only somewhat dirty, Hawke hands one of the foil packets to Fenris. Hesitantly, Fenris opens it to discover a kind of garlic, turnip, and potato hash with herbs and brown lumps that are… pork? 

“I swear by the Maker that there’s no fish in this,” says Hawke with a grin. He eagerly begins digging into his foil-wrapped hash. 

Fenris thinks about his previous experiences with Ferelden food, but his stomach rumbles and he can't really turn down anything at this point. So he nods and takes a small bite. It's not bad, but it has a lot more oil and general grease than he usually likes. The potatoes are soggy and the meat is tough, but it's more edible than the “lasagna” that had been served to him at Olive Garden. 

He does his best to look like he's enjoying it, but most of his focus is on Hawke. There's something nice and pleasant about sharing a meal together. Hawke relaxes in a way he rarely does at other times. Even covered in blood, this Hawke is so much softer than the one who killed slavers just an hour earlier. 

Make no mistake, Fenris cherishes the violent side of Hawke. There's just something nice about this part too.

Hawke’s eyes, brimming with warmth and so much affection, are on Fenris as they eat. Fenris is still here, still with him, and they’re enjoying themselves together. Perhaps Hawke hasn’t fucked up this date — or this relationship — completely after all. 

“Hey, Fenris?” says Hawke. “How does this date compare to our first one?” _Garrett, you idiot, that was the very last question you should have asked him._

Fenris sets his fork down and considers the question. Honestly, both were very nice in very different ways. Hawke is more than just a soft, kind hearted romantic. He's cruel and rough and forceful. And their dates reflect that too. 

“Well,” Fenris says slowly, “I suppose not getting shot is always a boon.” He gives Hawke a wry smile. “But it is difficult to have more enjoyment outside of killing slavers. Especially with such distinguished company such as yourself.” 

“I do strive to be the greatest of company in every way,” Hawke laughs. 

Fenris gives him a small chuckle as he swallows down a particularly grizzly piece of meat. The excessive fat might help when winters are regularly freezing and food is precious, but it does nothing to endear Fenris to the meal. His pleasure is derived entirely from the person sitting in front of him. It's an odd situation, one Fenris decides he likes. 

“Then allow me to say that your company is the greatest that I have had the ability to enjoy,” Fenris says, and Hawke blushes bright red, his expression turning pleasantly surprised. Fenris smirks. “But perhaps next time I shall choose our date. And we should agree to leave out the part where I got shot when we tell Sebastian, else he may decide to visit you with a gun of his own,” Fenris continues, teasing Hawke. 

“That is probably for the best,” says Hawke with a slight wince at the thought of Sebastian’s inevitable fury. Sebastian is a dear friend to them both, and his protectiveness of Fenris is an admirable trait, but Hawke likes being alive and in one piece too much to be completely honest with him about this particular evening. His smile soon returns though, warm and glowing, as he gives Fenris an affection-filled look. “I can’t wait to see what kind of date you take me on.”

“With any luck, one that we both enjoy and remember for a long time.” The honesty startles Fenris, who can barely admit that he wants to be in a relationship most days let alone eagerly await the next date. And choosing it? He's never had to pick a date in his life. 

_What have you gotten yourself into,_ Fenris wonders. He swallows and then coughs a little, clearing his throat and his head. He gestures to his mostly empty piece of aluminum foil. 

“I believe I am done. Shall we be off?” 

“Of course, love.” Hawke gathers up their trash and chucks it in the closest bin — _he may be a badass rebel rule-breaker and a hardened criminal, but he’s no litterer_ — and then threads his fingers through Fenris’s as he leads them back to his motorcycle. The pain and spiraling self-hatred from earlier has buried itself deep inside Hawke, where it usually lingers, leaving him enough peace to relish this happy moment with the man he loves most in the world.

#

All too soon after that, Hawke parks his motorcycle outside Fenris’s abandoned warehouse. He slides off with a rehearsed air of sexiness and helps Fenris down. 

Heartbeat quickening, Hawke has to practically bite his tongue to prevent himself from asking if he can accompany Fenris inside. He’s been to Fenris’s warehouse more times than he can count since they first became friends — almost as many times as Fenris has come over to Hawke’s luxurious flat in Hightown to hang out — but asking would mean something different now that they are in a relationship. And Hawke is self-aware enough to realize how overwhelming he can be, especially when it comes to romance, so instead he brushes a kiss against Fenris’s cheek and murmurs, “Thank you for coming out with me tonight, Fenris.” 

In a moment of sudden boldness, Fenris reaches up and turns Hawke to face him fully before pressing their lips together. It's quick and soft initially — Fenris is practically pulling away before they even touch — but when Hawke doesn't grow angry at his forwardness Fenris relaxes into it. 

He rests one hand on Hawke's jaw, the other sitting on his hip as it traces circles against Hawke's leather belt. It's still slow and gentle, but there is more to it — a hint of passion and almost desperation. All of that is buried underneath a mountain of hesitation and uncertainty, but Fenris hopes that Hawke understands that he wants this just as much as he does. 

Fenris’s lips are soft, softer than Hawke remembered them being, and his mouth still tastes of their greasy Fereldan meat and potato hash dinner, and yet he also tastes sweeter than Hawke could have dreamed. Hawke’s eyelids slip shut as he savors every second, every touch, every caress of their lips, his spine all but dissolving from the sheer pleasure of this kiss.

There are a million romantic words Hawke could say about his feelings for Fenris and about their relationship and about this very moment, but this kiss says all of them and more. A thrill of delight runs through him at the feel of Fenris taking the lead in their kiss — at Fenris finally beginning to feel free enough and ready to initiate physical affection like this. And although Hawke’s hands remain at Fenris’s waist, lingering supportively and never delving further than Fenris might be comfortable with, Hawke’s mouth opens for Fenris to take the kiss as far and as deep as Fenris decides to go. 

Hawke wants Fenris so very much, but more than anything else, he wants Fenris to feel happy and safe and comfortable with him. Succeeding in this is truly what can make Hawke be the better man Fenris deserves. So therefore he lets Fenris determine the pace and intensity of this kiss and of all physical affection this night, and he hopes that Fenris understands how he tries to convey that through every second their mouths meet. 

It feels like the kiss lasts forever, but the two finally do pull apart though they still hold onto one another. Fenris blinks stars out of his eyes, feeling a little lightheaded from the rush. He coughs and glances down, though he still is close enough to Hawke that he can feel the man’s warmth. 

“I… thank you, Hawke. Today was very enjoyable,” Fenris says. He makes no move to leave. 

It is with the greatest reluctance that Hawke removes his arms from Fenris’s waist, but he remains where he stands, close against Fenris. “Enjoyable?” he echoes with a grin. “I’ll take that as high praise. The very highest. When can I see you again?” 

“Soon, I hope.” Fenris kisses Hawke once more, this time no more than a peck on the lips. “Good night, Hawke.” 

_Wishing you the most amazing and goodest of nights, my beautiful, darling love. Sweetest of dreams, dearest Fenris. I love you,_ are the smitten thoughts echoing in Hawke’s head. Aloud, he simply says, “Good night, Fenris.” In one fluid movement he replaces his helmet and gets back on his motorcycle, assuring himself that he appears the very picture of sexy masculinity rather than the besotted fool he truly is as he drives off into the Kirkwall night. 

Fenris watches Hawke until his motorcycle’s engine is but a faint noise in the distance. He sighs and wraps his arms around himself as he heads inside. It’s cold out, with the sun gone and a soft breeze drifting through the air. Anyone and anything able to seek shelter no doubt has found it and he’ll have to make do in his unheated, vulnerable home.

Once inside, he makes his way across the traps strewn across the bottom floor. Most of them are merely alarms, designed to make enough noise so that anyone in the warehouse can hear that someone is coming. Others are dangerous, set to injure whoever gets caught. But for the most part he’s set up enough of a warning system that he’ll never be surprised by any visitor.

Only a few people besides himself know exactly how to get through — Sebastian, Isabela, and of course Hawke. They’re all people Fenris trusts with his life, which is odd considering he’s only known them a short time. 

_They are all better people than I deserve,_ Fenris thinks as he ascends the last curve of the spiral staircase. He stretches his arms and winces. His shoulder is much better, but it would not do to strain it unnecessarily while it’s still so freshly injured. 

He freezes when he hears something break. 

Fenris reaches for his knife and pistol, pulling both out and crouching down into a defensive stance. The lights are off and there isn’t enough sunlight to illuminate the upper floor — he can’t see more than twenty feet in any direction. His little area, his sanctuary, is in a corner far away from the stairs precisely so he has time to prepare before anyone can get to him. He had plans for situations where someone is waiting, but the crash…

That was not the kind of mistake a trained slave hunter would make. Fenris wonders if a homeless person has wandered in, but surely they would have crashed into at least one of his traps.

He sneaks forward, ready to defend his home and his safety to the death. 

After a few minutes — he’s going slowly, taking his time to not alert the person that he’s back — he spots his little camp. Immediately, Fenris is confused. He doesn’t see anyone. Unless they’ve found a way to hide under his bed or behind his mini-fridge, then they’ve run off. Only, in order to leave Fenris would have seen them.

Fenris hears a cat meow. He straightens up and, striding forward, turns his lamp on. He stares at his table, where the vase containing the flowers from his last date is now in pieces on the floor. The flowers are scattered across the ground, still wet. The most ugly, scarred cat stares up at Fenris with its single eye. It’s missing chunks of hair, there are multiple claw marks across its face and side, and it’s difficult to tell if it has dark fur or is just that covered in dirt. 

It looks up at Fenris and yawns. 

“Fasta vass… Shoo! Get out of here,” Fenris mutters, waving a hand. The cat looks at him, utterly unimpressed. A moment passes, the two staring at one another. Fenris sighs and goes to the fridge. He’s pretty sure he has some leftover food that might be cat friendly.


End file.
